As a big fan of "Scandi" drama, it was with deep regret that I found Crimes of Passionsuch an unrewarding plod. With five bumper feature-length episodes to go, it's probably too early to demand that the series be stripped of its Swedish subtitles and prime Saturday-night slot on BBC4 and its commissioners force-fed Ikea's famous tinned herrings (yes, the ones that smell like dead bodies) – and after all, the show may yet be discovered and enjoyed by lovers of Bergerac or the more recent popular Caribbean whodunnit starring the man who used to do the BT ads. Even so, when one of the characters finally cried in exasperation "What is this – Ten Little Indians?", I thought, don't flatter yourself, Sven.

Anyway, here it was, flaunting an ersatz sort of cool with its stylish group of 1950s academics and artistic types gathered for a midsummer's eve party at a house on an island with no phone or neighbours and just the one unreliable boat should escape be necessary in the event of a woman being strangled. The friends were soon downing champagne and laughing and smoking their heads off Mad Men-style, and getting on one another's nerves – the unhappily married hosts, the flirty actress, the angry poet, the crass womaniser, the mysterious uninvited sculptress and her female friend, in addition to our demure postgrad heroine Puck, and her well-groomed new beau, Eje, who talked about literature and ancient cultures and looked good in trunks or even smeared in engine oil, holding a spanner.

And the plot jerked us along, alternately insulting the intelligence and thwarting it, favouring muddy storytelling over complexity (what was that nonsense with the hidden letter?) and relying on half-glimpsed characters hovering at the corner of the screen at crucial moments. Fragrant Puck, meanwhile, wandering among the pines or relaxing in a hammock, seemed in amazingly constant earshot of damning conversation ("I'll kill her!" and "You ruined my life!" were my favourites), or through no fault of her own would find herself presented with a view of people snogging in the bushes who oughtn't to be. Oh, how she beetled her lovely brow – almost as if silently drawing on her oft-mentioned doctoral thesis about murder and the modern novel. And you wouldn't believe how useful she was when the suave, good-looking detective from Stockholm arrived to ask a hundred wrong questions before arresting the first person the audience thought of an hour ago – yes, the one with no apparent motive or personality. Next week Puck, Eje and the detective embark on a brand new adventure. I don't think I'm giving too much away when I say I have to wash my hair that night.

'There wasn't a dry eye in the house': Musharaf Asghar and teacher Matthew Burton in Stammer School: Musharaf Finds His Voice. Photograph: Two Four Production Two Four Production/PR

There wasn't a dry eye in the house (well, my house) during the unmissable Stammer School: Musharaf Finds His Voice, which followed Musharaf Asghar, reluctant show-stealer of the Bafta-winning Educating Yorkshire, as he attended a four-day course of therapy to conquer his famous stutter. The poor boy's attempt to book into his Croydon hotel – "Mm-mm-mm…" – seemed like eloquence itself in describing the scale of the task ahead. Mushy's coursemates fared better, though not by much. The sight of one young woman, Vicky, struggling to get the correct number of sixes into her telephone number (with a shop assistant trying to assist) brought a moment of unbearable comedy. So could the volunteer mentors on this pioneering McGuire Programme – recovering stammerers themselves and schooled in breathing techniques and pep talks – arrange the necessary miracle? It seemed unlikely, but after a day the students – each with a belt strapped across their chest – stood up and said who they were. The next day Vicky found the courage and voice to address a barful of strangers. By day four the whole class were giving valedictory speeches in front of their incredulous loved ones. Mushy's smile – rarely seen – was as big as God's own county itself. Here was the miracle – the sudden revelation of the real person inside, freed, and so instantly and implausibly blossoming. Buckets were duly wept. And we weren't finished. Shortly afterwards Mushy was back at his school in Dewsbury doing work experience under the beaming tutelage of the great Mr Burton, Musharaf's once unlikely dream of one day becoming a teacher himself finally possible. He looked like he had the patience for it. No doubt his progress will be monitored on Channel 4. This story just won't go away.

'An hour of mindless pleasure': Richard Ayoade and Tim Vine brave the wind tunnel in Gadget Man. Photograph: North One Television North One Television/PR

If you wanted half an hour of mindless pleasure last week, Gadget Man was back for a third series, with some weather-based tech products. "There are literally many umbrellas on the market," said Richard Aoyade, without whose effortless funniness and knowingly zany orange suit, this review would be basically a list of stuff. One-line gagster Tim Vine came along to put an inflatable tent up in a gale and tell a joke about tornadoes while Marcus Brigstocke helped out with a hand-held turbo-something designed to blow snowboarders back up a slope. But Aoyade could probably do all this on his own, with perhaps just a break for the chance to win £40,000 worth of widgetry simply by sending money in the form of texts to the organisers along with millions of other foolish viewers. The show seemed over in minutes. For what it's worth I liked the waterproof shirt (perfect in a Friday pub situation, I thought), with perhaps the self-heating chicken curry for the last train home. Some people think of everything.